


liminality

by daisuga



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28821246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisuga/pseuds/daisuga
Summary: “I’m thinking,” Hansol smiles, “That I’m sharing food with you. It’s all I can do, and it is everything.”There’s a familiar twitch at the corner of Seungkwan’s lips.“Don’t think you can trick me by quoting Andre Dubus.”Seungkwan’s fingernails are dainty, pretty little things.
Relationships: Boo Seungkwan/Chwe Hansol | Vernon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 105





	liminality

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, written for a lovely fic prompt that i got from my curiouscat.  
> i wrote this in an HOUR. i'm not real anymore  
> anon, whoever you are, i love you.
> 
> song for this fic: skin by dijon
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/oresthia)  
> [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/oresthia)

Seungkwan’s fingernails are dainty, pretty little things.

Seungkwan and Hansol wake up earlier than they thought, having fallen asleep curled around each other last night, _Dijon_ ’s Skin accidentally playing on loop from Hansol’s phone, well into the morning.

It’s just about six in the morning, the sunrise barely cresting over the horizon. There’s the faint blues, the faint pinks, the faint oranges, and then the faint silhouette of Seungkwan preparing the table. Hansol beats the eggs - five eggs, and Seungkwan watches as he scrambles them, giving him the salt, then the pepper, putting them back on the cupboard before sitting down and waiting.

Eggs cook fast. Hansol turns off the stove and brings the pan over the table, spooning the eggs into their plates. The sun rises fast, too, and now the pinks and oranges aren’t as faint. Seungkwan isn’t, either, and as he sits down on his chair across Seungkwan in their tiny, quaint kitchen, he looks at Seungkwan and his dainty, pretty fingernails, painted in the nicest shade of yellow.

The color stands out from the silverware, from the oak table, from the cute floral plate that they bought when they first moved in. The same way it stood out years ago, from the diner where they had their first date in; an impressive feat, considering the diner was in an ‘80s aesthetic, with the jukebox and the checkered floors and _Hotline Miami_ colored sofas. It ominously played ABBA songs on the regular, but the first time they were there, they were sobering up from a college party and Seungkwan was unashamedly jamming to _Lay All Your Love On Me_.

Hansol knew he loved Seungkwan before that, but at that moment, where he was tipsily singing out loud to ABBA, disturbing ten or so people who came to the diner for a 3 AM fix, he might’ve decided that he wanted to be with Seungkwan for the rest of his life.

“You have that dopey smile on your face,” Seungkwan says, chewing on the eggs and tilting his head. “What are you thinking of?”

A lot of things. Like forever. Like wanting this moment to last for their whole lifetimes. Like the way they turn their kitchen into a tiny, liminal space, a moment they only get to ever share with each other. Like how every day with Seungkwan feels like a Sunday; a gentle blanket, a warm, golden sunlight, the smell of the flowers wafting into their room. The quiet comfort of their mattress on the bed, the white walls making them feel more significant than they will ever be. The feeling of home from the stack of books on the corner of the room, the feeling of acceptance with the stowed away chess set and Hansol’s guitar carefully mounted next to the plants, just to the side of their bedroom door.

That’s a lot of things, though, and Hansol can’t find it in himself to articulate everything properly. Seungkwan is the literature major, not him. So he speaks in the form of the language in which they both will understand.

“I’m thinking,” Hansol smiles, “That I’m sharing food with you. It’s all I can do, and it is everything.”

There’s a familiar twitch at the corner of Seungkwan’s lips.

“Don’t think you can trick me by quoting Andre Dubus.”

But Seungkwan gets it, Hansol knows. Seungkwan always does, because Seungkwan knows words better than Hansol can ever hope to. Seungkwan knows, and that’s why Hansol stands up, his food half-eaten, but he’ll get back to that later. He slips into the room as Seungkwan laughs and asks what he’s doing, but makes no effort to stop him or to peek at what he’s doing.

He opens his drawers and pulls out his pliers, before scooting over to his guitar and snipping off the A string. It makes a quiet snapping sound that reverberates through the apartment, and he hears Seungkwan’s utensils hitting the plates gently as he continues eating.

Hansol takes the string and rolls them into a circle, using the pliers to form them well and flatten out the parts that stick out. Like a ring. Roughly the size of Seungkwan’s fingers.

He walks out of the room, and Seungkwan stares at him, then at the makeshift ring, then back at him again. There’s a certain glint in his eyes, and in seven years, Hansol has learned how to read Seungkwan better than anyone.

“You’re kidding?”

“No,” Hansol answers softly. “Not with you. Not ever.”

Seungkwan drops his utensils and stands up, biting his lips, before saying, “You have to kneel.”

“No, I’ll get cramps.”

Seungkwan laughs, but it’s strained, like he’s about to cry, and Hansol thinks that he just might.

“You asshole, do it properly.”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

He hasn’t planned on doing this. Obviously. If Hansol planned it, he’d have an actual ring, and they’ll be at _that_ diner, and he’ll certainly kneel without Seungkwan asking him to. But beneath this layer of banter is his nervousness, and the final admittance that he has no idea what he’s doing. It tends to happen, like that, with Seungkwan; Hansol’s brain tends to fade just a little bit, and the next thing he knows is that he’s doing something he absolutely doesn’t know.

But this:

Him kneeling on their quaint little kitchen, his legs aching from yesterday’s workout, a makeshift ring made from his guitar strings in his hand. Seungkwan looking down at him like he’s offering him something so much more than that, the clearest he had ever been in Hansol’s eyes.

They are in love, and Hansol is giving everything to him, and Seungkwan is giving everything to him, and _that one,_ he knows more than anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> “Yet still I believe in love's possibility, in its presence on the earth; as I believe I can approach the altar on any morning of any day which may be the last and receive the touch that does not, for me, say: There is no death; but does say: In this instant I recognize, with you, that you must die. And I believe I can do this in an ordinary kitchen with an ordinary woman and five eggs. The woman sets the table. She watches me beat the eggs. I scramble them in a saucepan, as my now-dead friend taught me; they stand deeper and cook softer, he said. I take our plates, spoon eggs on them, we sit and eat. She and I and the kitchen have become extraordinary; we are not simply eating; we are pausing in the march to perform an act together, we are in love; and the meal offered and received is a sacrament which says: I know you will die; I am sharing food with you; it is all I can do, and it is everything.”  
> ― Andre Dubus, Broken Vessels: Essays


End file.
